Power
by Teddster
Summary: A son of the Enderdragon infiltrates a castle in the sky to eliminate a king, but not everything goes as planned.
1. Part I

**Part I**

The two massive fortresses stared at each other from the different, giant islands they rested upon. They were direct parallels to each other – the massively foreboding dark obsidian structure and the graceful palace made of marble and quartz. In between the two, another massive island rested, buildings dotting them. Currently, the dark castle inhabited it.

While most people only saw the elegance of the palace, the Enderborn saw the twisted power in the dark castle as well. If only the beauty from both sides was ruined by the slaves toiling on either island, the Enderborn mused.

The pitiful workers were dressed in dull, thin gray. None of them walked around or chatted with each other like soldiers or civilians that had earned entry to one of the fortresses. They simply huddled and crouched, backs hunched – either they toiled in the mines until their arms bled, or they were sent out to use blocks from the mines to build bridges to the center island.

The Enderborn watched the slaves try to bridge with the age old tactic, crouching and placing a block forward, then repeating the process. He narrowed his eyes in distaste as he saw the carelessness in which they were sent – a slave was barely able to place three blocks before they were mowed down by the arrows from either side.

"Bastards," he whispered to himself. The ring on his finger, bearing a sizable amethyst, glowed brighter. He nodded to himself, pulling the dark cloak he wore over his body more.

He was on the side of the light palace, balancing in a tall tree. Around him, some of the luckier slaves slammed worn axes into trees, cutting them down and harvesting the wood from them. Down below his tree, a supervisor watched the slaves, strong cudgel in his hands. The slaves avoided the area around him, as they always did, hoping that the supervisor would not deem their work insufficient.

"Make me of the shadows," he whispered, and the amethyst glowed in response. With the power of his Endermother fueling his magical strength from the ring, the magical forces responded. His skin and clothes darkened to match the night air, and, satisfied, he said, "Bend the air." The air around him twisted in response, and he was flung off the tree. Gracefully he soared through the air, before releasing the power on the air at the top of a spire. He kept the magic in the shadows that hid him.

"Change sound," he commanded, and after a moment he added, "Break glass near to me."

A skylight shattered, the sound muffled and dull as if everyone hearing it was underwater. It collapsed below and he leaped inside. No palace guards or nobles were here, which was good – he did not want to get to the "kill people" portion of the plan yet.

Silently, he drew a pair of diamond daggers from his belt. He crouched, shadows over his body, and stalked forward, body tense. He peered down the spiral staircase leading below and, seeing nothing, cautiously made his way down it. He spotted no one, and did not have to waste anymore of his Endermother's magic on the stairs – they were a cleanly cut, smooth stone.

Loud, boisterous voices filled his ears, and he slowed his descent as he neared the bottom of the staircase. A room lay beyond, and the door out of it was blocked by a table full of three, drunken young men and their older, more experienced – still drunken, though – companion.

"Muffle senses besides my own," he commanded, and the ring shuddered at the command. He cursed inwardly; he should have been more specific with the command, but it was too late to take it back now, anyways. "Increase my senses," he said, and instantly he became more alert. He shut his eyes – even though the shadows hid him, they could not dull his piercing violet eyes that even a blind baby could spot in the darkness – and slowly shuffled forward.

He trusted the power of his Endermother, and the men did not spot him as he crawled past. It was agonizingly slow work, draining magic from both sources quickly, and he did not anticipate repeating this process for the dark castle.

The door to his side opened. The Enderborn instantly froze, and the men at the table barely regarded the new palace guardsmen stumbling in, obviously already intoxicated. The newcomer raised a flask of something into the air, laughing as he stumbled towards the table.

The Enderborn moved. He crawled, faster than he usually would have dared, into the dark corner. Once he reached it he sat up, pushing himself against the smooth, white wall. The newcomer stumbled into a chair with the others, this one pointed directly towards the closed door. Fine, then, the Enderborn thought.

Directing the power into one of his daggers, he whispered, "Seek flesh that is not my own." The dagger wiggled out of his grasp and he released it; the diamond instantly flew through the air, and straight into the exposed neck of one of the young men.

He leaped forward as the man croaked and fell forward. The guards reacted slowly, and the Enderborn easily pushed the remaining dagger into the eye of the newcomer. The man screamed loudly, twisting away, and the Enderborn commanded, "Bring diamond to me!" Both daggers freed themselves from their human prisons and flung themselves towards his outstretched hands. He grabbed both with ease, then called, "Strengthen my legs."

He leaped over the table as the veteran soldier pulled free his sword. He landed behind the veteran. The two young men scrambled as the veteran swiveled. The Enderborn's first stab sliced through cloth and flesh, and the second bounced off of the veteran's sword. He leaped backwards as the veteran stabbed at him, and he ducked down quickly as the man repeated the action. A thought flashed through his mind; would the command be too specific?

"Seek the nearest knee that is not my own," he barked, and the two daggers were dragged from his grip. They flew true, both slamming into the same knee of the veteran. The man screamed and twisted, and the Enderborn said, "Bring metal to me!"

One of the young men stumbled as his golden necklace was ripped from his neck. Four swords – two from dead men, two from the living youths – launched towards him, and he stopped the magical flow just before the swords impaled him. He stepped out of the way as the swords clattered to the ground, snagging one off of the floor and advancing upon the two guards quickly.

The nearest one righted himself quickly, lunging for a sword on the ground. The Enderborn was too quick, however; he met the guard near the sword, snapping the sword he held forward and straight into the guard's gut. The guard crumpled as the Enderborn pulled the blade free, turning towards the remaining guard.

The remaining guard backed away warily, unarmed, panic flashing across his face. The Enderborn considered him for a moment, repeating his orders again. Witnesses would be required, and so he took pity on the man, calling, "Bring flesh to me." The man screamed as he was jerked off the ground and rushed towards the Enderborn. He ended the flow of power as the man collapsed to the floor, shaking. With a quick movement, the Enderborn slammed the hilt of the sword into the man's head, causing him to slump to the ground.

"Bring diamond to me," he commanded. The daggers flew from their perch in dead knee, alighting themselves in his hands as the sword clattered to the ground. He swiveled, dashing towards the door. With a single command it was open, and he was in an empty, quartz hallway.

"Show me the strongest source of magic besides myself," he ordered. His vision blurred, and a moment later it refocused. A trail of violet cut through the white hall, hovering slightly above the gray stone floor. He ran, following the shifting trail, ducking through the twists and turns of the palace.

He turned a corner and ran straight into an armored guard. The man jumped, raising his halberd, and quickly the Enderborn commanded, "Bring metal to me." The guard yelled as he was dragged towards the Enderborn, halberd leveled towards him. The Enderborn leaped to the side, cutting off the flow of magic as he dug the two daggers into the man's back. The guard twisted and spasmed as he screamed, before his body relaxed and slumped to the ground.

He dashed through the halls, legs pounding, trusting the trail. He clashed with groups of guards twice more – one group of four, one of two – and left one more guard alive, but otherwise his run was uneventful.

Eventually the trail led into a large, ornate door. He hesitated at it, and then, stepping away, ordered, "Open doors near to me." The door shuddered, the knob turned and then the door was flung open. The space where he would have been if he had opened it using mundane means was suddenly filled with a massive sword.

The wielder, a large man in full plate armor, cursed. The helmet he wore was decorated with two navy plumes, sticking out from both sides of his head and curving upwards; otherwise, his armor was unadorned. The massive sword he held was larger than the Enderborn's torso, yet the armored man balanced it easily in two hands.

The Enderborn danced backwards as the armored man advanced, sword swinging with a fury. The Enderborn cursed, commanding, "Strengthen my body. Strengthen my weapons. Dull senses that are not my own. Dull-"

The man swung, and the Enderborn leaped to the side, his last command cut off. He raised his daggers, which now faintly glowed with a violet sheen. The effects of his commands was obvious; while his senses were sharper and he moved with a new sense of grace, while the armored man stepped forward slower, took more effort to raise his massive sword.

The Enderborn leaped forward, past the man's strike, and stabbed upwards with a dagger. Smoothly, the dagger slid into the small chink in the armor where the elbow was. The man howled in rage, slammed his gauntlet into the Enderborn. The Enderborn stumbled, slamming into the ground and losing his second dagger.

The man ripped the bloody dagger free from his elbow, tossing it aside. The Enderborn grunted as the man staggered towards him, then commanded, "Bring diamond to me." The two daggers flew, one narrowly missing the man's helmet, and arrived into his hands. The man stabbed downwards, and the Enderborn rolled out of the way before yelling, "Reverse gravity!"

The Enderborn shifted, nauseated as he was flung into the ceiling. The man came down harder, screaming as he smashed into the quartz below. The Enderborn stood first, rolling upwards, ignoring the confusion as gravity was defied as he dashed for the man. The daggers slid through the armor easily, and the man twisted away and swung his fist upwards.

The fist connected with the Enderborn's jaw, and he stumbled back as the man righted himself. Grimacing, the Enderborn commanded, "Revert gravity," and the two fell again. The Enderborn twisted midair, landing on his feet; the man clanged to the ground, rising quickly. "Bring metal to me!" he commanded, and the sword was ripped from the man's hands and flung towards him. He cut off the flow as the man began to float in the air, causing him and the sword to clatter to the ground again. The Enderborn dove for the sword, grabbing it and again commanding, "Bring metal to me!"

The sword was already in his hands – it did not move. The man, however, screamed as he was lifted into the air and slowly dragged towards the Enderborn. The smaller an object, the quicker it was pulled, the Enderman thought.

"Attract sword to nearest metal," he called triumphantly. The man screamed, waving his arms as the Enderborn released the sword. The sword flew through the air, angling straight towards the man. His scream was cut off as the sword pierced him, shifting into a pained groan and then nothing.

"Bring diamond to me," he called, and the daggers came to his hands. He cut off all of his flows except for the trail, which still led through the doorway. He caught his breath and dashed through it, looking wildly.

The trail stopped at the empty throne. He swore – did the trail have to be refreshed periodically? He cut it off, then started it up again, yet the trail still led to the throne. He swore, slamming a dagger into the floor in anger – the White King had played a clever trick, halting the Endermother's plan; it could not go through if one King survived.

He stared at the trail for a moment longer before an idea sparked in his mind. He reversed gravity, flinging himself to the ceiling. On the ceiling he walked ten paces, then reverted gravity. Finally he commanded, "Show me my position ten seconds ago."

The trail materialized, doing as he commanded – except it did not lead upwards to the ceiling. It simply paused where he was, in the same position, a foot above the ground.

He scooped the dagger from the floor and sprinted towards the throne. With a savage kick strengthened by his a curt command, the flimsy seat flew away, revealing a trapdoor. He commanded it open, ducking down the small staircase beneath it.

Then he screamed as he was slammed into the nearby wall by a strong magical force.

All of his magical flows were capped off, and light burst into the room. On a smaller throne lazed a man – pale skin, white hair, gray eyes, white robes. A sword rested near the throne, and the man looked bored as he stared lazily at the Enderborn.

It was the White King. The White King was killing him.

The White King was strong, the Enderborn could admit; the sheer power he felt from the man was almost overwhelming. Yet no mortal could match the power of the Endermother, and with a gasp he croaked out, "Destroy _him." _He directed all of his power at the White King, putting as much strength as he could into the command.

"Destroy" was one of the most powerful and taxing commands. It took a large chunk of magic from yourself or your magic source and corrupted it. Then, the command forced the corrupted magic into the target, letting the corrupted magic merge with their normal magic, destroying their entire magic supply. After that, the corrupt magic exploded, destroying the target from the inside.

It took seven seconds for the White King to realize what was happening. His eyes widened and he staggered to his feet, screaming as his muscles tensed and his magic storage was invaded. He twisted, spasmed, jerked around on his feet before screaming his throat raw, collapsing to the ground. After a moment, purple smoke began to leak out of him, and then he exploded into a massive inferno.

The White King was gone, but the force holding him down was still there. He tried to move and found that he could not; his body was weak and a massive force still held him. Could the White King still be alive, somehow? Or...

Or that wasn't the White King.

"_You bastard!_" The voice was elderly and filled to the brim with fury. From behind the throne, an old man with gray hair and white robes stepped out. A long, wooden staff was gripped in his wrinkled fingers, and magic radiated from his body. "Do you know how _difficult _it will be to replace him? Bah!"

The man grabbed the sword from the corner, stalking over to the Enderborn. The Enderborn twisted, trying to move, break free from the magic holding him down, but he could not. The Enderborn twisted his arm, reaching blindly for one of his daggers as the man stepped over him. He felt the hilt, dragging the dagger towards him and grabbing it before he teleported.

The sword slammed into empty ground, and the man's eyes widened in confusion. The man, while he held a strong store of it, was not experienced with magic, apparently; instead of directing the flow at the Enderborn to hold him, he directed it at the area he was in. The Enderborn materialized behind him and, without a sense of hesitation, plunged the dagger inbetween the man's shoulder-blades.

The man shuddered, body twitching as he fell forward. The Enderborn grabbed the dagger, sliding both of them back into his belt as he sat on the floor. His body ached; his mind was clouded with questions. The White King was dead, but apparently he was just a figurehead. He wondered if the same was true for the Black King.

He did, however, know one thing for certain.

The Sky Wars had just changed drastically.

* * *

At first this was just a random, passing idea in my head, and I just started writing it to get it out. I originally planned for it to be a oneshot, but then it turned into a threeshot. (Are threeshots a thing?) Anyways the rest of this will be posted soon, opinions appreciated, man the Enderborn is such an original character right guys?


	2. Part II

**Part II**

The Enderborn screamed as his skin was burned off.

That was an exaggeration. Although the effects of a bucket of water being poured over him _felt _like that, his body remained remotely unharmed (ignoring the reddening skin and blisters sprouting up from his body.) The lack of physical effects, however, did not stop the tirade of pain washing through him. He arched his back, eyes wide open as another scream ripped from his throat. He pushed upwards, held back by tight leather straps across his arms and legs; cold air nipped at his bare chest.

A hand in rough chain gauntlet grabbed his hair, slamming his head down to the table. He grunted, before the water cascaded down upon him. He screamed, the water slipping into his mouth; he spasmed, throat burning, body heaving.

"Enough," a voice called, bored. There was a sound of acknowledgment that the Enderborn faintly heard, and Endermother be blessed a man nearby grabbed a thick towel of wool and rubbed the water off of him. The man allowed his head to pop up and he did so quickly, spitting out the cursed liquid from its perch in his mouth, spluttering blindly. The man with the towel laughed condescendingly at him, swiping the water off of his reddened skin.

The hand gripped his hair again, roughly shoving him down again. He breathed hoarsely, curious as to what horrible punishments these men would inflict upon him. He tried to harness the Ender within him to teleport away, but – as he suspected – there was a thick iron manacle around his leg, chain leading to the floor. The mortal tether tied him to the realm, and so he could not use his Ender-abilities.

A man towered above him, a foreboding silhouette against the bright walls. Numbly he realized the walls, the ceiling and the clothes the men wore were all white. So this was the bunch he had made the maddest. He would've expected a religious sect, maybe a band of mercenaries he'd made mad, but no; despite his injuries, the thought brought a wry smile to his lips.

Then the man plunged the cold, steel knife just below the Enderborn's collarbone. He screamed, twisting as a small bubble of his blood – bright, cherry red blood – appeared; and then hands were holding him down, dozens of hands shoving him into the operating table as the man swiftly, easily brought the knife down a thin, smooth line in the Enderborn's skin with a carefully practiced precision.

The pain was horrible. He begged for the water to return, praying to his Endermother as the man carefully pulled his sides apart, inspecting the body that lay within. He gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring his blood. The man mumbled something, and then a pair of hands reached up to his face, prying his mouth open. He resisted with all his might, but with a quick tug the men had their goal accomplished.

A bottle full of bright, vibrant pink liquid was opened and forced into his mouth. The smell was revolting, the taste so sweet it sickened him, and he sputtered and tried to spit it out. His body began to knit itself together, and the man towering over him cursed, digging his knife into the Enderborn's body and prying. The Enderborn screamed, the sound more of a gurgle around the pink liquid in his mouth.

His sight began to dim, and the men around him cursed rapidly. Another potion was forced between his lips, and he gagged and spit as much of it as he could out.

The knife in his insides slipped into something. He screamed savagely, body jerking around rapidly. The men swore loudly, holding him down; faintly he noted one of the straps working itself free, though the men didn't seem to notice. Then pain overtook his body, and his vision swam as he blurred out of consciousness. The men took the opportunity, jerking his head to the side and draining some of the leftover liquid from his mouth, before pouring another potion inside.

He fluttered back into lucidity after they forced a rather potent instant healing potion into him. His body ached; every limb felt like it was dunked into a tank of water. He breathed rapidly, shallow breaths fueling him. The men crowed triumphantly, pulling away from the exhausted Enderborn, releasing their hard grip upon him. He was curious why he still lived, and what they were really after.

His whole body shuddered with horror as the man gently placed his bloody Enderpearl on the tray near his body.

No.

"_NO!_" The scream ripped from his lips before he could stop it. He leaped, leather straps holding him down. He ignored his exhaustion, his fatigue, instead fueling his struggle purely on the abhorrence, the hate he felt for these bastards in white. Every fiber of his being filled with hate; he wanted these people to burn. He wanted to tear them apart, skin them alive and drop the remaining meat into a giant pot of boiling water. No punishment would be enough for this. He would slaughter every last one of them as soon as he got the chance.

He was no longer gifted.

Being an Enderborn was the greatest honor one could achieve. An Enderdragon, or occasionally Lord Jeb himself would choose a man worthy of the title. Only the best of the best were considered for this; his Endermother knew she was making a good decision as soon as she decided to award the honor to the Enderborn.

Was he an Enderborn now? No. He wasn't. He was not gifted any longer. He shuddered, a twisted, dismal sob as a tear streaked down his face. Enderborn did not cry. Enderborn could not cry. He was not an Enderborn.

He was no longer gifted. He was no longer gifted. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea, but yet it was so clear to him. He was no longer gifted. A pained sob escaped him, and the men barely paid him a glance. He was a nobody, now. If only his Endermother was here. He was like a child, begging for his parents to come help – that was exactly what he was doing. But his Endermother was gone. The ring, his only contact with her, was gone.

The man who had cut him open and stolen his gift calmly laid his bloody knife near the Enderpearl. He shrugged his gloves, bloody with his own blood, off, and used the towel that had dried him off earlier to wipe his hands and tunic. He turned, striding from the room, and many of the men followed. One man stayed, a simple guard with a spear and no sword. The guard set a wooden chair near the table, settling into it with spear resting nearby, staring intently at the former-Enderborn.

What was he to be called? He had renounced his name when he took the title of Enderborn. But he was Enderborn no longer. He no longer had ties to his Endermother or Lord Jeb. All he knew now was a lust for vengeance, a desire to make every man here pay. It did not matter if the Black King was dead, if their castle recuperated; all that mattered was a lust for vengeance.

As the lights went out, the former Enderborn planned for the palace to be flooded with blood of the sinful.


	3. Part III

(I kind of had a naming crisis in this chapter. Technically he's still not an Enderborn, but suddenly changing his name seems too awkward/jarring for the reader. Whoops.)

**Part III**

The room was dark. The guard was asleep. It was time for the Enderborn to make his move.

Quietly, he wrenched his arm free from the loose leather strap. It took a few tugs, and the former Enderborn would have sworn out of exasperation. But not the man he was now. He was a different man. A changed one. His mission was the only thing that drove him, and so he silently freed his arm from its constraint and went to freeing the others.

It took little time to free his limbs. His bare chest was bloody, his trousers rough and short. He leaped off of the table, snagging the knife and – after a moment of deep consideration – the bloody Enderpearl from the tray. He slipped the pearl into a small pocket in his trousers; it bulged obviously, but he paid it no heed, stalking towards the guard with knife raised.

He stalked behind the guard, and with a quick snap slit the man's throat. The man's eyes snapped open in the last seconds of his life, and the Enderborn placed his hand over the man's mouth as he spasmed. The spear clattered to the ground, and the Enderborn grabbed the guard as he struggled. The guard twisted, kicking the chair away and clattering to the ground before lucidity left his body. The Enderborn snatched the spear up, ignoring the twitching body as he hurried towards the door.

He eased the door open. Two guards sat outside, and one jerked his head open, opening his mouth to what he expected to be another guard. Before he could make another sound the knife slid into the space under his chin, and the Enderborn leaped out as he fell. The other guard started, fumbling for his spear, and the Enderborn slammed the point of his own into the guard's eye. The man screamed loudly, echoing through the halls as he jerked to the floor.

The Enderborn stooped down, jerking the now red knife from the first guard's throat and snatching the clean spear from the second. He balanced the knife easily in one hand as he dashed through the corridors. His body ached, but adrenaline and blood-lust fueled him as he turned through the corners of the palace. What he assumed to be the palace.

One time he turned the corner and straight into a wizard with three soldiers. Instinctively he slammed the spear forward, but the wizard stepped to the side and grabbed the spear in midair. The Enderborn leaped forward, unused to his lack of agility, and the two crashed into each other. The Enderborn fumbled downwards, and with a quick flick of the wrist the knife cleanly slid into the wizard's ribs. Something slammed into his head, and the Enderborn cursed as he staggered upwards, bringing the spear up.

Two spearmen and a swordsman. The spearmen advanced warily – one was missing an eye, and the other looked to be an arrogant youth. Pitiful. One-eye advanced, jabbing towards the Enderborn, and the man stumbled back, feigning incompetence. The youth, spurned on by One-eye, leaped forward, spear arcing downwards to the Enderborn. With a fluid motion the Enderborn stepped out of the way, snatching the youth's spear while jerking forward his own. The youth's eyes widened as the spear pierced his stomach, and he gurgled something incomprehensible as he fell to the ground. The Enderborn spun his new spear, turning towards One-eye. The swordsman warily watched from behind.

One-eye leaped forward, stabbing at the Enderborn. The latter stepped to the side, stabbing his spear at One-eye, who jumped out of the way. The two paused, staring at each other warily. Finally the Enderborn jerked his arm back, tossing the spear towards One-eye; the man stepped out of the way, and the Enderborn leaped forward, grabbing the spear. The two grappled for it, and the swordsman's eyes widened as he saw the opportunity.

The swordsman stepped forward, swinging his sword in a clean arc. With a quick movement, the Enderborn jerked his thumb up and into One-eye's remaining eye. One-eye screamed, and the Enderborn pulled him, tossing him into the arc of the sword. The sword slammed into his neck, stopping as the man croaked out blood, and the Enderborn snapped the spear free. With a quick jab, he slammed it into the swordsman's eyes. The swordsman screamed, falling to the ground, and the Enderborn pulled the bloody spear free from his body.

Thinking for a moment, the Enderborn jammed the spear into the swordsman's other eye, then his throat, relishing the sound of his screams cutting off.

The Enderborn advanced with the spear and the bloody knife. It was slow work as the Enderborn realized that he could not logically slaughter everyone. So he went to stealth, slinking through the shadows and ambushing anyone if they were alone.

One time he glanced into the clear helmet of a dead soldier. His eyes were a clear blue. He would never enjoy the effect his eyes had on others.

Finally he stopped, hearing a voice. Hesitantly he peeked around the corner, spotting a wizard and a swordsman. He would have moved on except for two facts: The wizard was the man who had cut him open.

And he had the ring.

With a savage roar, without thinking of the consequences, the Enderborn rounded the corner and jabbed the knife into the swordsman's eye. He ignored the screaming man, jabbing the spear at the wizard. Easily, the wizard ducked, grabbing the spear and jerking the Enderborn towards him.

"The power you held," snarled the wizard. "And you waste it."

The ring glowed, and the Enderborn flew through the air with the spear. He slammed into the ground; maybe hearing the bones break was just his imagination. His vision slam with black spots, and somehow he had held his grip on the spear. He sat up, pain roaring through him, body weak and fragile.

The wizard stepped towards him, arm extended.

"Simple assassinations," he scoffed. "You are a _fool_. I am not. But I am a good man. So thank you for this power. I'll make your death quick."

When the Enderborn spoke, his voice was hoarse and raw.

"Focus gravity upon this spear."

The wizard's eyes widened as his mouth flew open in horror. The spear shook as the massive wave of power rushed into it, and the Enderborn was dragged slightly towards the spear. The wizard was suddenly ripped from the ground, spiraling in the air and straight towards the spear.

The Enderborn smiled as the point pierced the wizard's torso, passing straight through the other end. Instantly he cut off the power, but the power from him was gone. He had to force each breath out through the shuddering shell that was his body. He let the corpse fall, spear with it, and with a final surge of energy he dragged himself towards the body and pulled the ring off, placing it on his finger.

_REMOVE THIS! _his Endermother roared. _You are no longer worthy of my power! Destroy this ring, and never come to me again! Unworthy! Ungifted!_

Using the power from the ring, the Enderborn whispered, "Quiet the Enderdragon." The voice cut off. "Give me strength. Heal my wounds."

The power from the ring fell slightly, and the Enderborn stood as his body mended itself, his power returning. He smiled; his job was practically done, was it not? He held the power to slaughter everyone here now. But did he have to? The Enderdragon had turned her back on him.

Maybe being separated from the Ender wasn't so bad after all.

"Take me out," he commanded. Not "Lead me out." The ring obeyed, teleporting him out of the palace and onto the soft grass of the palace garden. Lights and figures bustled within, but he paid no heed to them. He was on a giant island in the middle of nothing but void. He held the power of the Enderdragon herself. He had the capability to do anything.

He pulled the Enderpearl from his pocket. Assuming the pearl brought him somewhere, he thought. He could use the ring, fly for eternity in vague hopes of finding something. Or he could use the Enderpearl; toss it out into the void. If nothing happened, the pearl would be lost. But if it landed somewhere, he would disappear, teleport to a new realm of possibilities.

He tossed the Enderpearl with all his might.

A moment later, he teleported.


End file.
